


Like Newlyweds

by AUO



Series: Very Hot and Real Thirsty [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Anniversary, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6950284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AUO/pseuds/AUO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a day, like any other.</p>
<p>But even the ordinary can be deified.</p>
<p>*Oral sex happens, but the focus isn't smut.</p>
<p>*Cross-posted from tumblr; original Kamui as seen in the rest of this series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Newlyweds

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually pretty old... Posted on tumblr on January 14, which is the anniversary the first fe14 trailer came out, which marks the anniversary of the day I fell in love with Marx..... lol
> 
> A friend is slowly (nagging me) getting me to cross-post more fanfiction onto here since I actually have a legitimately disgusting amount on my tumblr.

The day isn’t special for Madora.

In a sense, it’s rather uneventful, the same as any other day.

It isn’t special when she’s drawn out of sleep by cold air and large hands caressing her thighs, pulling them apart gently to stroke her already damp panties. It isn’t special that her husband leaves the covers on her top half and continues rubbing her thighs even when he dips his head between them, keeping her as warm as he can with his draconic body heat. And it certainly isn’t “special” - i.e. /ˈspeSHəl/ - adj. “better, greater, or otherwise different from what is usual” - when Marx pulls her panties off with his teeth, looking her in her bleary eyes all the while, hot breath dulling the sharp cold of the room, gold curls tickling her thighs. Or when he drags his tongue against her slit at last or the way her toes curl into the silk duvet as he sucks her clit, lavishing her with his tongue until the waves of pleasure drive any lethargy from her bones, her back arching off the mattress, his name rolling off her lips like a morning prayer.

And it isn’t special that he laughs as she cums, right up against her twitching sex, and she can feel his smile and the rumble of his chuckle, morning making his voice even huskier than usual. Nor is is special that he uses his tongue to clean her up, or that his cleaning turns into round two or that round two turns into round three.

And he kisses her after she finally regains her breath, as if trying to steal it away again, and she wants to ask him why he’d want to have something he’s already had, why he’s so insistent on tasting every part of her every day, why he doesn’t ever get bored, but she already knows why. He made it clear from the minute he proposed.

He wants her everything.

Her hair, her skin, her body… Every breath she takes, he makes sure to steal away. He pulls her close, hands running over her body in trails they must have traced a thousand times before, so that every new skin cell knows his touch, his warmth, his love.

“Finally awake?” he teases, pulling away, and she hits him weakly with a pillow.

“I think the first time was enough to wake me up,” she grumbles out, but he’s smiling at her and she can’t help but smile too. “All I want to do now is go back to sleep…”

“And I’d love to join you, but…,” he sighs softly and places one last gentle kiss on her forehead, like the way generals press wax seals onto death notifications. “Do as you will. It’s your special day.”

“It’s our special day,” she corrects him, adjusting the crooked circlet that’s somehow escaped his notice, and squeezes his hand.

“And seeing as I belong to you… It is, indeed yours still,” he teases gently, but is out the door before she can retort. His hands are laced together, as if trying to keep the warmth of hers there.

-

It isn’t surprising when Flora comes into the room, slightly out of breath, with a garment bag draped over her shoulder.

It’s a little surprising, she must admit, when she unzips the bag to find a gown more diamond than cloth, real gold spun and woven into the cloth as embroidery. It shouldn’t be surprising - of course Marx would get her a dress, and of course Marx knows exactly what her taste is, but this kind of spoiling is still fairly fresh to her. And because she’s just a little surprised, just a little taken aback, especially after Flora helps her into it, that when the maid pulls a box from the pocket of the garment bag, she can’t help but be surprised at that too. And that little feeling grows with every piece of jewelry Flora pulls from the box, or when Felicia nearly crashes through the door bringing a pair of heels of gold and ruby whose platform and heel sculpted into a relief depicting a certain dying god-dragon, looking more art than shoe.

It isn’t special that her husband would get her any of this. It isn’t unusual at all.

And it shouldn’t be surprising that when Flora turns back to her mistress to drape a neck-piece around her, Madora is crying, face half hidden by her hand, because it’s too much. It’s too much and she doesn’t deserve any of it.

The twins can only exchanges glances, but that alone is enough, and Felicia is out the door, sprinting to Marx.

And it isn’t surprising that when Felicia comes back, her husband is nowhere to be found.

Mostly because she would kill him if he saw her in such a gown before that night. It’s good that he at least respects a woman’s boudoir and the sanctity of getting ready. Trusts her enough to know she isn’t sad - or at least not sad enough to ruin her grand reveal.

It is surprising that he’s given Felicia his handkerchief to dry her tears. It’s still warm from his hands and it smells like the cologne she picked out for him and she can’t bring herself to dry her tears on it because then it wouldn’t be his anymore - it would be hers and that, she knows, would defeat its purpose. She thanks Felicia loudly, but tells her that she’ll give the handkerchief to Marx later herself. Her pointed ears twitch as she hears a familiar sigh in a familiar baritone and the familiar cadence of familiar riding boots down a familiar hall.

She presses her nose into the cloth, glad she was right and it really was his warmth after all.

-

And of course, after all his many, many extravagant gifts, it isn’t surprising that he’d host a ball in her honor. Their honor, she corrects him as she reads the invitation and then rereads it, savoring his small, neatly printed “I love you,” in the bottom corner. She kisses it before putting it neatly into her vanity drawer, where an uncountable number of similar letters reside.

She drapes her shawl around her elbows and gives herself one last look in the mirror. Deep breath. The brocade of the bodice is almost uncomfortable with how tight it sits against her like this. Exhale. And then it’s perfect against her and she stands a little straighter, because she must, because it shouldn’t surprise her because it’s what she is but - she looks like a queen.

Queen. Even after a year - well, a little less than that - the word doesn’t quite seem to fit. For all her want, for all her posturing before she got the title, it seems almost uncomfortable now, just like her bodice with her chest puffed out. Too much. Not earned. Something to wear to make herself seem more than she is. Just like this dress and jewelry and shoes.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she hates the feeling rising in her. Hates that it feels good, that sense of command, that elevation of status. Hates that she wants it, hates that she doesn’t want it, hates that it’s there can’t she can’t tell if it fits without anyone’s help. She tugs her shawl tighter. That, at least, fits her. It’s gaudy, yes, a blaze of gold ombre to a blood red, but it suits her. She can’t fathom why Marx picked red of all colors to accent tonight, but she likes it. The red of her cloak as a Dark Blood. The red of Nohr’s dawn, softer colors darkened by the overhang of clouds. It makes her think of gladiators all vying to win the crowd, fighting, dying to entertain.

It reminds her of herself.

And with that thought, a conquering thought, she strides to the door in her new heels, crushing gods and dragons underfoot with each step.

But when the doors of the audience hall open and she descends down the steps, her people’s eyes all turned on her, all adoring - though none more so than her own husband’s - she cannot harbor those violent thoughts. She knows how she looks, black chiffon skirt fluttering like darkness tugging at her being, and her arms wrapped in flame, rubies of her jewelry shining like freshly opened wounds upon her being. She knows she could look fierce as the god-slayer she was, is.

But she doesn’t want that.

Because with every step under the gazes of her people, her lieges, those she has sworn to protect especially on this day, she does not want to be hard or distant or cold. And so her smile comes easily, counteracting the sharpness of her visage and in that balance she sees it.

She waves to the crowd, her beloved people, and bounds into her husband’s arms, and if reflecting her own abundant joy they too become rambunctious, laughing, cheering, indulging in the merriment of the evening. And surprisingly (or perhaps not, to those who knew her) with her husband - the king - in her arms she thinks that there is no place she belongs more, no station more worthy of her presence.

-

It isn’t surprising when he takes her, arm around her waist, to show her off to dignitaries. And it isn’t surprising when Marx turns and their gazes grow pointed and jealous. Nor is it surprising that Marx sees them out of the corner of his eyes and holds her a little closer.

And, even though it happens every ball and gala they hold, it is a little special when he takes her out on the balcony, away from the crowds and the dignitaries and their own siblings, into the stillness of the night. And in the dim moonlight they dance to a soundless song, with steps that have no distinct pattern, like a secret only they know. On and on they dance like that, their made-up little waltz, pressing closer and closer until he can’t stand it, and he presses himself against his wife, his “I love you”s repeating endlessly into the dusk, making a new dizzying song for them to dance to until she silences him with a kiss, responding in the only way she feels could ever convey her feelings.

And out here, kissing and dancing even as the clouds shut out the moonlight, alone and away from everyone, they can be anyone. But she only wants to be Madora, Queen of Nohr, and he only wants to be Marx, her loving husband.

And so they are.

-

Unsurprisingly, they don’t rejoin the festivities. Surprisingly, nobody asks, but perhaps it isn’t so unexpected when one considers the king and queen still act like newlyweds even after a year of being formally married, three of being legally married, near a decade of harboring feelings for one another, and near a lifetime of simply being together.

Her giggles - giggles! - and squeals resound through empty hallways as her harries her, nipping her neck, running his tongue along the sensitive shell of her pointy ears pinching her gently and tickling her all the while back to their room. He can barely stand to unlock the door and briefly wonders if he could break it down, not wanting to pull his attention from his wife - ever - but especially not today. But he does, and they nearly trip into the room, drunk on laughter and brazen silliness, and stumbling, deliciously off kilter, the room blurs red.

Laughter bubbling inside her catches in her throat and he stops his teasing to hold her, feel her - her stillness, the beating of her heart, the hitch of her breath.

“Do you like it?” he murmurs against her ear.

Red. Everything is adorned with red carnations, blooming madly even though it isn’t the season. She can tell they aren’t imported - she can smell Nohr on them, in them. He must have grown them himself.

“Of course,” is all she can say, and it isn’t enough, but he can feel the breathlessness in her words, this close.

He picks one and she almost tells him not to because now it can’t grow, but she knows.

“For the little princess-” he starts, then corrects himself, “-queen.” He brushes her hair back behind her ear as he places the flower in her hair.

It isn’t special.

It’s the same as he’s always done.

In fact, he does it exactly the same way as he did fourteen years ago. The same carefully controlled fingertips, almost trembling as he touches her. The way he caresses her violet hair for only a moment allowing himself only that much before pulling away, even though she’s his wife now. A small, sad, almost nostalgic smile. The way his eyebrows knit, not from frustration, but from utter adoration.

He looks at her like he’s seeing her for the first time.

Always.

And every day of the year he treats her with the same careful adoration, the same level of doting and spoiling he always has.

Every day he finds another way to fall in love with her.

And that’s why she loves him, she thinks.

She doesn’t need to be doted on. She doesn’t need to be spoiled. But he loves her. More than anything. More than everything. No matter what she does or doesn’t do, no matter if she thinks she’s earned his love or not.

He’s always loved her. Unabashedly. Completely. Infinitely.

And he always will.

In that sense, they’re the same.


End file.
